


Treasure

by glyphsbowtie



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bisexuality, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fake Marriage, Healing, M/M, Masturbation, Past Cancer, Prosthesis, Swearing, Treasure Hunting, repressed homosexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-03-22 17:19:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13768854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glyphsbowtie/pseuds/glyphsbowtie
Summary: Thirteen years ago, Hanzo Shimada discovered the treasure that would save his family and secure his position as its head- then Jesse McCree stole it at gunpoint.Now, Hanzo needs McCree to help him locate another lost treasure. As the pair set out on an adventure that will take them all over the globe, will Hanzo be able to look past his overwhelming desire for revenge against McCree?





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_ Borneo, 25th August 2005 _

 

“Finally,” Hanzo Shimada murmurs with a pleased smile.

 

He is sitting cross-legged on the dirty ground in a dark cave. There is mud smeared down his cheek, and the white shirt he wears is covered in blood. Some of his long, glossy brown hair has fallen loose around face. His bow leans against his knee as he looks down at the small wooden box he has unearthed.

 

He wipes distractedly at his sweaty forehead before opening the box with shaking fingers. This is everything; his father sent him to find this trinket because of its incredible value. It has taken him eight months, but finally, he has it. His family won't have to worry about running out of funds for their militia.

 

With trembling, bloody fingertips, he unclasps the golden lock and opens the lid. All the hard work, the trekking around isolated locations with the small group of unpleasant men his father granted him control of, all the violence… it's finally worth it.

 

His deep, exhausted eyes catch a glimmer of gold inside the box. A ring is nestled there, grimy and tarnished, but clearly made of solid gold. Hanzo sighs in relief as he reaches for it.

 

There is the cold press of a gun against his temple.

 

Hanzo tenses, freezing. His men are guarding the entrance to the cave. How did anyone get past them? He turns his head as much as he dares to the man clutching the revolver. The golden hand curled around the weapon is stained with green: the same green that clings to the walls of the cave in the form of some disgusting plant. This man climbed down the wall.

 

Hanzo would confess himself impressed if this were a different situation. As it stands, he is furious and embarrassed to have been caught out.

 

The man is, like Hanzo, in his early twenties. He has smooth, sunkissed skin and a messy tangle of brown hair. He wears a faded red serape over his clothes and favours Hanzo with a soft smile, which reveals deep creases around his mouth and eyes. This is a man who smiles often.

 

“Hanzo Shimada,” he drawls, in a surprisingly deep American accent. His voice is like thick toffee: rich, and not at all unpleasant. His twinkling brown eyes drop to the ring in the box. “I'm thrilled you finally asked me! I'd be overjoyed to accept.”

 

Hanzo raises his eyebrows, somehow keeping his temper. “Are you… are you making a marriage proposal joke?” he replies in clipped tones.

 

The man laughs. “Sorry. I did hear you had no sense of humour. I'll be relievin’ you of that ring, please.”

 

Hanzo thinks about it. There is no other way out of this. He hates a great many people, and, as he hands over the box, he adds this handsome American to the list. Their fingers brush and the contact causes a strange feeling of heat to unfurl in Hanzo’s stomach. He tells himself it is because of his fury at this man, and not because of the incredibly handsome face he possesses.

 

The man tips his hat at Hanzo sardonically, pocketing the box with and grin and taking a step back towards the wall. “My thanks, Mr Shimada.”

 

“I swear I will kill you,” Hanzo growls. His hands have curled into fists. 

 

“Perhaps. But not today. Farewell!”

 

The man turns to the wall, leaping at it and clutching on to a handhold that is invisible to Hanzo. The furious Shimada watches the tall man scale the wall, growing ever closer to the small crack in roof of the cave from which he must have crawled in.

 

In one fluid motion, Hanzo has his bow in one hand, an arrow held taut in the other. He snarls as he aims at the American. 

 

He blinks and the American is pointing the revolver at him. They look at each other, Hanzo glaring, the American merely appraising.

 

Hanzo isn't sure who fires first, but he suspects later it is probably him. The release of the arrow from his hand and the white-hot burn of the bullet entering his shoulder are nearly simultaneous. The world blurs painfully as he reaches up desperately to cover the wound. The American cries out, Hanzo’s arrow hitting the back of his shoulder.

 

Then he is gone. 

 

Hanzo pulls his hand away. It is covered in blood, and more is pouring out. Darkness creeps into the edges of his vision. He hears his men rushing in, reacting to the sound of the gunshot.

 

As he lies down on the ground, his vision going black, he burns the American’s face into his mind.

 

He will get revenge. 


	2. Coffee and Cigarettes

_San Francisco, 24th February 2018_

 

It is the pain in his shoulder that wakes him up.

 

He sits up, groggily, his eyes adjusting to the golden morning light pouring in through the silky net he pinned up over the enormous, brass-outlined window in his bedroom. Around the window, in towering stacks on the floor, his books glitter with dust. On the pillow beside him is a stack of yellowing papers he brought to bed last night.

 

He glances down, peering at the back of his shoulder with his eyes narrowed. It is unclear, and with a low grumble he retrieves his reading glasses from the bedside table- accidentally knocking his mobile phone and a pile of essays to the floor- and places them on his face before looking down again.

 

The scar is the same. Round, neat and faintly pink. He traces his fingertips over it delicately, frowning slightly as he remembers the burning pain of that arrow lodging in his flesh. The pain is gone now, but some ghost of it lingers, occasionally haunting his dreams.

 

He shakes his head to clear the nagging feeling that something is wrong, and pushes the quilt off. Although this time of year in San Francisco is hardly balmy, it is relatively mild, and he sleeps naked most of the time.

 

Standing up, he is careful not to trod on any clutter on the floor. He stops to pick up his mobile phone from the floor and pads across the wooden beams to the chintzy purple drape that separates his bedroom from the main living area of the apartment. The enormous windows here are uncovered, some ten feet tall, and he walks across to them to look out. Five stories high, he feels confident that his nudity won't bother anyone who happens to be passing below. Across the road, the campus office block is empty at this time on a Saturday morning.

 

Humming slightly to himself, he goes into the kitchen area, turning on the coffee maker and retrieving a cigarette from the box on top of the fridge. He lights it with an ornate silver lighter and leans back against the counter to smoke it as the coffee brews. Were anyone else here, it would be quite a sight to behold: a tall man, still muscular and lean as he was in his younger days, but with a distinctive thickening about his stomach, completely naked except for a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses and the gold ring he always wears on a leather thong around his throat.

 

There is a knock at the door. Sighing, he crushes the cigarette into the ashtray by the dirty sink and heads towards the sofa. Amongst the piles of books and papers there is a pair of jeans he discarded here last night. He slips them on and goes over to the bottle green door that separates his existence from the rest of the world.

 

He opens it to reveal a woman clutching two Starbucks cups and smiling at him brightly.

 

“Finally, you're awake. I've been calling you for two hours, Jesse,” she says, handing him one of the cups and sweeping past him into his apartment in a familiar way. She barely spares his naked torso or bed-tousled hair a glance.

 

“Sorry. My phone's on silent.” Jesse takes a sip of the black coffee she has handed him.

 

She faces him, smiling still. This is Dr Angela Ziegler. She works at the university too, and is a world expert in several fields of medicine. She also has a healthy appetite for history and adventure, so when the university offered their archaeology professor Jesse McCree the apartment opposite her five years ago, it was inevitable that the pair would become firm friends.

 

“I know you're excited,” Jesse says. “I am, too. I'm just… I didn't sleep well.”

 

“More nightmares?” she asks sympathetically.

 

He coughs. “Yeah. It doesn't matter.”

 

“What are you going to wear?” she asks, and he feels gratitude that she has granted him his wish to drop the subject. He notices that she looks extraordinarily beautiful today, even by her already impressive standards. Her yellow hair is swept back with a simple silver clip and she is wearing a demure black dress with heeled pumps.

 

Jesse scratches his head, wincing as his fingers snag in the snarling knots of his hair. “Um, like jeans and a plaid shirt?”

 

She rolls her eyes, and he grins at her. He takes a long drink of coffee and places it on a precariously stacked desk.

 

“Relax, Angie,” he says, crossing to her to clap her on the back before heading to the bathroom.

 

The bathroom is like the rest of the apartment: tall and industrial, with an impossibly huge window (over which he has affixed a silky green net) and an abundance of clutter. He smiles wryly at the half-bottle of whiskey sitting on the edge of the enormous, chipped tub. He takes a swig before shedding the jeans and glasses and climbing into the smeared glass shower cubicle.

 

The water comes down cold and biting. He sighs and coughs again, still fighting a nagging feeling that something is wrong. Lathering up with coconut shower gel, he tries to focus on his own breathing, thinks about the strategies Angie has taught him to use.

 

Finally, he steps out and wraps himself in a threadbare towel before heading out of the bathroom. Angie is settled on the overstuffed armchair she tried to talk him out of buying last night (“It really is incredibly ugly, Jes.”) and is reading an article on her iPad with her blue eyes narrowed. She looks up at him and smiles as he passes.

 

In the bedroom, Jesse selects his nicest jeans- dark blue, tight, relatively unworn- and a plain black top with long sleeves and two buttons at the neck, which he leaves open to reveal some of his chest hair and the ring. He drags a comb through his hair, noting that it is getting long again; it touches the base of his neck when it's wet and brushed down. There are also a few too many greys in it for Jesse's liking. A spritz of aftershave and Jesse is ready.

 

“You look nice,” Angie says fondly when he comes back out.

 

He smiles his thanks and digs his boots out of a pile by the door, pulling them on.

 

“Let's do this,” he says, and the words make his heart thud quickly. It's finally happening. It's today.

 

Angela follows him out and into the dark hallway. They head down the narrow stairs, a seemingly endless climb into the dark which finally brings them to a fire door. Jesse opens it and for a moment wishes he was wearing a jacket. The air is cool and fresh.

 

“Your car or mine?” Angela asks.

 

Jesse grins, producing his car keys from his pocket and heading over to his enormous green Land Rover.

 

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Angie replies with mock resignation, following him. To her credit, she climbs easily into the ridiculously tall car in her heels.

 

The engine starts after three attempts with a sort of deafening roar. Jesse smiles to himself as Angela sighs. The car crunches away into the road, and he focuses for a moment on the shuddering metal around him before reaching with one hand into the glove box and producing a cigarette.

 

“Jesse, careful!” Angela says reproachfully as he takes his other hand off the wheel to light it. “When they said those things were going to kill you, I doubt a car crash was what they had in mind.”

 

He exhales with a laugh but winks at her apologetically. “Sorry, sunshine.”

 

They are coming up onto the freeway, and Jesse winds the window down to tap the ash from his cigarette. He lets it dangle from his lips as he takes the wheel carefully with both hands, the car steadily gathering speed.

 

“You're prepared for your speech?” Angie asks softly, almost inaudible over the roar of the engine.

 

“Angie, I give lectures for a living. Public speaking ain't something that worries me.”

 

“No, but this particular topic is.”

 

He glances at her, suddenly aware of the scar on his shoulder aching. “You're right. But I have to do this.”

 

She looks back at him, eyes burning fondly. “I'm proud of you,” she says.

 

He touches her hand briefly. “I couldn't have done this without you,” he says, and his voice is momentarily gruff with emotion.

 

She smiles. “Sure you could have. Although, imagine how badly you'd be dressed.”

 

They're both laughing as he swings the car off the freeway. A short distance up the road and he pulls into the car park behind the bookstore. He turns the key and the engine stops. A sudden, heavy silence falls.

 

“Jesse?” Angela prompts.

 

His heart is racing, and his mind swims for a moment. Then he blinks. He takes a deep breath. “Let's go,” he replies.

 

They climb out the car and head around to the entrance. Jesse has a momentary jolt when he sees his own face grinning back at him from one of the banners by the door; it is the one they selected for the dust jacket, one where he looks devilishly handsome and cocky.

 

Angela pushes the doors open and there it is, right in front of them, dozens of copies on a table.

 

His book.

 

He has seen a copy before, of course, but never like this: dozens of them, glossy and bright, each cover bearing the image of his ring laid over the globe. His name at the bottom in small, black letters: Professor Jesse McCree. And the title at the top.

 

_A Dark Legacy: The Tale of Sir Bartleby McCree._

 

“You've arrived!” A young woman sweeps over to them, face bright and open. A man with a camera follows her. “Local hero Jesse McCree! It's so nice to meet you. I'm Mei, I'm the one who will be interviewing you, Professor!”

 

Jesse shakes her hand, but the words ring hollow. He certainly isn't a hero, much less a local one. He has never discovered where he originated.

 

“Congratulations on your book publication!” the woman continues. “You must be terribly excited.”

 

“Excited,” he repeats, and forces a smile. “Words can't do it justice.”

 

* * *

 

  _Hanamura, 25th February 2018_

 

Hanzo wakes when his shoulder aches.

 

It is early; the light is cold, and so is the air. He sits up suddenly, one hand on his naked shoulder and the other on the handle of the katana he sleeps beside. For a moment, he is haunted by taunting, sparkling brown eyes, but then they are gone.

 

He has started each day this way for the past thirteen years.

 

Pushing silk blankets aside, he stands up and reaches for a heavy red robe. He wraps himself in it and reaches into the pocket for a cigarette, lighting it and inhaling deeply before leaving his bedroom and heading to his office.

 

He shares this apartment with his younger brother Genji, and, more often than not, a dozen or so of the Shimada guards. However, it is early, and he doesn't come across anyone before slipping into his office.

 

He sits down, cigarette clamped between his lips. His shoulder is still hurting; this is longer than the pain usually lasts, and he pushes the robe aside irritably to look down at the gnarled mess of scar tissue that idiot man's bullet has left him with.

 

Thirteen years without revenge for the great shame he had forced upon Hanzo. Thirteen years of searching desperately for the ring Hanzo’s father still insisted they needed.

 

Thirteen years of not even knowing the man's name.

 

Hanzo fingers the scar furiously for a moment before opening his laptop to check his emails. The alert he has set up to monitor any mentions of Bartleby McCree has activated. Usually, he gets an email every month or so, more often than not a useless journal article with no new information, or some awful fluff piece.

 

This is different.

 

There are fourteen emails. He opens one and clicks the link with a frown. What he sees makes him raise his eyebrows. He removes the cigarette from his lips and crushes it in the marble ashtray.

 

The photograph is outside a book shop. A man stands before a huge banner with his own photograph on it, smiling in a winning way and clutching a copy of a book.

 

Hanzo feels like his heart has stopped. He scans the article quickly, then exhales through his nose, his fingers once more inching towards his scar.

 

“Professor Jesse McCree,” he murmurs in wonderment.

 

He finally knows the man's name.


	3. Abducted

_ San Francisco, 1st March 2018 _

 

“I am not comfortable doing this,” Genji says softly. It is a plea to the brother who, every day, is becoming more of a stranger to him.

 

Hanzo, sitting beside him in the back of their car, doesn't even look at him. Genji prays it is because he is also highly uncomfortable with this situation. He is looking very pale, the grey hair at his temples making him look very old for a moment. “We need leverage. She is the leverage.”

 

Genji exhales. There is a war of emotions within him: the rage and horror that he feels about this terrible task he has been given, the dreadful resignation that this life is his fate, and a desperate desire to be free of his family. He closes his eyes and forces himself to be calm.

 

Without another word, he climbs out of the car and crosses to the fire door, which hangs permanently ajar. His hands are gloved in black leather as he opens it further to slip inside. It is dark and cool as he climbs the stairs. He is not a particularly suspicious character in a university building; he wears slim jeans, Converse and a black t-shirt beneath a beaten black leather jacket. He looks slightly younger than his years with his clean-shaven face and dyed green hair.

 

Dr Ziegler’s apartment is locked, but he produces a small device from his pocket which makes easy work of the simple lock. It is quiet and clean inside. The living area is open plan, with lots of light wood. The whole place smells of vanilla. Genji breathes in subconsciously; it is a pleasant scent.

 

On top of her desk, Dr Ziegler has a collection of photos in golden frames. Genji lifts one thoughtfully, looking at the two people standing on top of a mountain. The man is Jesse McCree, the object of Hanzo’s obsession. The photos Genji has seen of him since Hanzo discovered his identity have all been posed publicity shots: a handsome man, certainly, but lacking some warmth. McCree looks different here; his smile is genuine, his eyes twinkling. He is wrapped in a thick black coat, his arm thrown around a much shorter woman. This is Dr Angela Ziegler, the woman whom Hanzo has found to be Jesse McCree’s best friend and only exploitable weakness.

 

She is beautiful. Her long yellow hair is braided in the photograph, her cheeks flushed with exertion. Her smile is breathtaking.

 

The door opens behind Genji. He places the photo down and pulls the gun from the holster he is wearing beneath his jacket, turning and raising it.

 

Angela Ziegler stands there, clutching a grocery bag. Her mouth hangs open as she looks at him, her beautiful blue eyes fixed on the gun.

 

“Sit down, please,” Genji says gently.

 

“What do you want?” she asks, her voice mostly steady. She doesn’t move.

 

Genji raises his eyebrows. He has no intention of hurting this woman, he has decided. But he needs to make it seem like he would happily hurt her. If she senses weakness in him, he has lost this. “Sit. Please.”

 

She crosses to the sofa and sits down, still cradling the brown paper bag. Some of her hair has fallen loose from the bun she wears it in, and it frames her delicate face. Her eyes are wide and never leave his face. She swallows visibly. “My name is Angela,” she says quietly. “What’s yours?”

 

“Genji Shimada.”

 

“Oh.” She closes her eyes briefly. “This is about Jesse.”

 

Genji takes a step closer to her. She noticeably tenses, and he stops. “Yes,” he replies.

 

“What do you want from me? Revenge? Hurting me won’t change what Jesse did to your brother.”

 

“I won’t hurt you if you cooperate.”

 

She raises a blonde eyebrow. “Cooperate? With what?”

 

* * *

 

Jesse McCree gets home about an hour later, his body aching from the session he has completed at the gym. It is growing dark outside, and he fumbles with his key in the darkness of the corridor outside his front door.

 

The door is unlocked. He frowns to himself, but it isn’t the first time he has forgotten to lock it. Nobody else other than Angela really comes up here, so it isn’t ever a big deal.

 

He opens the door to the inky, shadowy living area, and is surprised to find he is not alone.

 

A man sits in the armchair, smoking languidly. It is difficult to make him out in the half-light, but he appears to be dressed entirely in black. The room smells of expensive tobacco.

 

“Turn the light on,” the man says, in a voice Jesse does not recognise. It is heavily accented.

 

Jesse’s heart is starting to beat quickly. Something is wrong here. His instincts have saved him several times in his life, and he has the distinct feeling that he is in danger. He reaches for the light switch and flicks it on, wincing for a moment in the sudden, artificial glow.

 

The man has thick, shiny dark hair twisted into a knot at the base of his neck; there are two silvery areas by his temples. His face is hard and smooth, ridiculously handsome and terrifying. His eyes are dark and burn into Jesse.

 

“Hanzo Shimada,” Jesse murmurs. He forces a cocky grin, but he feels as though the bottom has fallen out of his stomach. “You got old.”

 

Hanzo barks out a humourless laugh, then takes a drag on the cigarette he is clutching in his elegant fingers. “That’s funny, McCree. I seem to remember you as a sprightly, slim fool, yet look at you: you are old, and you are wasting your life in this hellhole.”

 

Jesse pushes a hand back through his sweaty hair. He needs to do something about this situation. He isn’t armed- he hasn’t been armed, in fact, since the last time he faced Hanzo Shimada. His old revolver, Peacemaker, is in a box in his closet, hidden beneath his serape. He has no doubt that he remains strong, but Hanzo Shimada is muscular beneath the tight black silk shirt he wears. If he is carrying a weapon, there is little Jesse can do.

 

“This a social call?” Jesse asks.

 

Hanzo smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He stubs out his cigarette delicately. “Categorically not. Given the opportunity, I would certainly not be choosing to engage with the likes of you.”

 

“Don’t start talking about engagements again, pal,” Jesse says. His mouth is starting to run away with him.

 

Hanzo is on his feet suddenly. He approaches Jesse slowly, like a cat assessing its prey. He is all but baring his teeth as he stops, inches away. Jesse has a good few inches on Hanzo, but there is something truly terrifying about the shorter man.

 

“I would happily kill you,” Hanzo growls. The words make the hair’s on the back of Jesse’s neck stand up. “I would murder you where you stand. Not a day has gone by in the past thirteen years where I have not thought of you, and how ardently I despise you.”

 

“Hold up there, Hanzo. Sounds to me like you’re obsessed with me.”

 

Hanzo punches him. Jesse feels his nose explode painfully and he cries out, staggering back as blood cascades around the fingers he reaches up to cover his face with. Pain like this is uncommon in his current existence, and he considers it for a moment before swinging back at Shimada, a wild blow which catches Hanzo in the lip. The shorter man yells in fury and then they are both on the floor, clawing at one another. Jesse is beneath Hanzo, trapped by his muscular calves, but he throws punches at Shimada’s face despite this. Hanzo blocks with his forearms before punching Jesse in the nose again.

 

As Jesse reaches up to grab Hanzo by the throat, Hanzo produces a gun from a holster on the back of his hip. He points it at Jesse, breathing heavily.

 

Most of his hair has come free from its knot. It frames his furious face. His own blood pours freely down his chin from his split lip, and his hands are covered in Jesse’s blood.

 

“Enough of this,” he growls.

 

Jesse lies back, panting, eyeing the gun warily. “You don’t want me dead. Or, you may want me dead, but you need me for something. So just tell me what you want so I can tell you to fuck off.” His nose is agony, and all he can taste is blood.

 

“The ring. You wrote in your book that you knew where the rest of Bartleby McCree’s treasure is. You’re going to take me there.”

 

Jesse does know where the treasure is- or at least, he’s quite sure he knows. “I’m not taking anybody there. Didn't you read the fucking book, Shimada? The treasure was responsible for the deaths of his entire crew.”

 

“You surely don’t believe in curses, McCree?”

 

Jesse lets his mind wander for a second, thinking about the research. He shivers involuntarily. “I don’t. But there is something wrong with this, Shimada. It’s best to just let it die. Trust me.”

 

“I imagine there are few people in the world foolish enough to trust you, McCree.”

 

Jesse raises his eyebrows. Truthfully, Hanzo Shimada isn’t wrong. Really, the only person in his life is Angela. “Don’t do this, Shimada. I’ve kept an eye on your family over the past decade. You don’t need the treasure. You’re doing quite enough dreadful things without it.”

 

Hanzo tightens his grip on the gun. “You have ‘kept an eye’ on us?”

 

“Don’t overthink it. I assume you found me because of the book. You’d have been keeping as close an eye on me if you could find me, pal.”

 

Hanzo frowns, but doesn’t argue. He reaches with his free hand into his pocket. “You are going to help me, McCree. You may as well go and pack.”

 

Jesse laughs. “Why the hell-?”

Hanzo Shimada shows him the screen of the phone. On it is a picture of Angela, looking pale and furious, a gun pressed to her temple.

 

“You fucking-” Jesse pushes at him, knocking the gun away. “I will fucking kill you if you’ve hurt her, Shimada, I swear to God-”

 

“She will be fine.” Hanzo doesn’t even seem flustered that the gun is now lying two feet away. His face is firm. “That is, if you come with me.”

 

Jesse exhales, leaning back and closing his eyes. The emotions within him are battling furiously for dominance. He feels sick at the thought of this; he gave this life up. He had hoped the book would dissuade people from seeking this treasure, rather than encourage them. He is ashamed, caught out, pinned beneath Hanzo Shimada in his sweaty gym clothes.

 

“Fuck,” he grinds out. “You’re going to regret this, Shimada.”


	4. Arrival in Hanamura

_ Somewhere above Hanamura, 3rd March 2018 _

 

Jesse wakes up to the familiar ghost pain in his shoulder; he thinks as he often does of Hanzo Shimada, the monster who fired an arrow into his shoulder blade. He blinks sleepily, reaching up to rub the old scar, and his finger has just made contact with the thin shirt he wears when he remembers.

 

His eyes snap open to see Hanzo Shimada staring at him.

 

His shadowed face wears an inscrutable expression, but his dark eyes burn into Jesse with a animalistic hunger that makes Jesse afraid. Hanzo is sitting perfectly still in the comfortable chair opposite Jesse, hands folded neatly on his lap.

 

They are on the Shimada's private jet, a small and luxurious affair. It shudders gently, the engines roaring constantly. Across the aisle, Angela is sitting asleep, watched as Jesse had been by her own guard: the green-haired younger brother to Hanzo.

 

“Are we there yet?” Jesse asks, making a show of stretching languidly and yawning. He is determined to be as irritating as possible until he can make his escape with Angela. 

 

“Almost,” Hanzo replies. His eyes are still fixed on Jesse.

 

“You been starin' at me the whole way, Han? You ain't doing much to change my mind about you being obsessed with me.”

 

Hanzo’s expression doesn't change, but a faint pink hue flushes his cheeks. It is surprising, and would be (on anyone else) attractive. Jesse hums in appreciation of this new information: Hanzo Shimada becomes flustered if Jesse flirts.

 

“I have planned my revenge against you for over a decade. I do not plan to let you out of my sight until I have carried it out.”

 

Jesse snorts, reaching for his hat, which he grabbed as he was being forced out of the flat with a case Hanzo had packed for him. He places it atop his head and tilts it forward, obscuring his face. “If you're plannin' to kill me, Hanzo, be a plum and get it over with. I'm tired of you staring at me like that.”

 

“Infuriating me only makes it more difficult for you,” Hanzo replies in a growl.

 

“Sure, because it can get more difficult than being kidnapped by Japanese criminals with my best friend to go search for a cursed treasure.” Jesse snorts again.

 

“I can be very unkind,” Hanzo says quietly, and there is an icy truth to the words. Jesse feels his stomach clench.

 

“Well, that's shocking and new information,” Jesse retorts sardonically. He tips the hat back and stares at Hanzo, making the challenge clear on his face. He might be terrified of this man, but he isn't going to show him that.

 

They gaze at each other for what feels like an eternity. Hanzo doesn't flinch. He looks every inch the terrifying head of a despicable crime family.

 

The moment is shattered when the tall woman who has been sitting in front of Hanzo turns her head. “We are about to land,” she says, in a heavy French accent. 

 

“Fasten your seatbelt,” Hanzo instructs Jesse.

 

Jesse laughs. “Worried about my safety, Han?”

 

Hanzo raises an eyebrow. “Defy me again,” he challenges. His eyes drift over to Angela, who is still- somehow- asleep. The green-haired man is leaning over to fasten her seatbelt.

 

“You're a real prick, Shimada,” Jesse says conversationally, as a flare of anger blooms inside him. He reaches for his seatbelt and fastens it, then turns his head away from his intense captor.

 

The aircraft begins its descent smoothly. Jesse watches out of the window as the azure blue and fluffy white of the skies are replaced by pockets of civilisation and bursts of colour. As the plane hurtles towards the landing strip, he is aware of clusters of vivid pink blossom. Finally, the plane grinds to a halt. There is a sudden silence as the engines stop.

 

Hanzo says something to his brother in Japanese, a language Jesse has never been able to get the hang of. His brother nods and nudges Angela, who opens her eyes sleepily.

 

“Come with me, please, Doctor Ziegler,” says the younger Shimada, in a surprisingly gentle tone.

 

She pushes a hand back through her hair, looking at him for a moment, then she looks at Jesse, a question in her eyes.

 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Jesse says, trying to soothe her with his voice and eyes. “Can't believe you slept through the whole flight.”

 

She almost manages a smile. “You know me. I'm great at flying long-haul.”

 

The younger Shimada has stood up and is offering her his hand. She glances at it, then up at his face. He is looking down at her with a strange expression; it is kind, and gentle.

 

“Go on, Angie,” Jesse says, and the words come out more roughly than he intended. He knows she is safe with the younger Shimada; he has some clear evidence of human nature which his elder brother lacks.

 

Angela visibly swallows, then places her hand in the man's much larger one. He pulls her to her feet and leads her from the plane. They almost look like a couple, hand in hand. Jesse wonders if this could be their ticket out of this mess.

 

He turns to Hanzo with a grin. “You goin' to offer me your hand, Han?”

 

Hanzo doesn't even reply, standing up abruptly and folding his arms. He glares at Jesse, who sighs and stands up slowly, his body still aching from their fight. He is gratified to notice the swollen wound in Hanzo’s bottom lip. 

 

He follows Hanzo to the door and out into the cool morning air. The runway is heavily guarded by men who must work for the Shimada family. A fleet of sleek black cars awaits them. Angela and the other Shimada are already in one, and Jesse watches it speed away.

 

“Come,” Hanzo says.

 

They cross to one of the cars and Hanzo opens the passenger for Jesse. Jesse considers making a joke. He climbs in obediently and Hanzo slams the door shut behind him.

 

Inside the car, the air is warm and smells vaguely of vanilla. Jesse closes his eyes briefly, trying to formulate a plan. They simply cannot set off after the treasure. It's too dangerous. Jesse has given up this life. Sure, there have been moments when he's been sitting grading papers that he has missed the thrill of discovery, the satisfaction of finding something before anyone else. But he's too old now. It's too late for him. Unfortunately, his brain isn't providing him with any strategies. 

 

Hanzo climbs into the driver’s side. This close, Jesse can smell him; expensive aftershave, something woody, and the faintest hint of perspiration. It's pleasant. Jesse watches him fasten his seatbelt before he leans over Jesse to open the glovebox. His throat is inches away from Jesse's mouth, and he wonders if he should merely rip it out. He watches the pulse beneath Hanzo’s skin, and for the briefest moment considers trailing his tongue along it, the way he might if this was a different car, and Hanzo was a different man. Or… if he and Hanzo had met under different circumstances. Jesse might despise the guy, but there is no denying that he is beautiful. 

 

He is still frowning at his own brain for betraying him with these thoughts when Hanzo sits back with the box of cigarettes he has retrieved in his hand. With sharp, calculated movements, he opens the box and places a cigarette in his mouth.

 

“You fancy sharin’ that with me?” Jesse asks, in a hoarse voice.

 

To his surprise, Hanzo offers him one without comment. Jesse takes it and places it in his mouth. Hanzo produces an ornate silver lighter and lights his own first before turning to Jesse and lighting his. His eyes are fixed on Jesse's mouth as he does so. Jesse feels his heartbeat quicken.

 

“Some advice,” Hanzo says briskly, turning away from Jesse and starting the car. “We are going to see Sojiro Shimada- my father. I assume you know of him.”

 

Jesse manages to suppress the shudder that the name invokes. Of course he knows of Sojiro Shimada. He is one of the most powerful men in the world, and one of the most evil too. Jesse thinks of Angela for a moment and prays she is being taken elsewhere. He takes a long drag on his cigarette. The car is moving now, heading out into a narrow lane. “I know all about your fucking family, Han,” he grinds out. “The drugs. The human trafficking. The murders.”

 

Hanzo doesn't even flinch. Jesse hates himself even more for wondering briefly what this monster's skin tasted of.

 

“You know, then, that you need to avoid provoking him. He would not hesitate to kill you- or worse.”

 

Jesse stares at Hanzo. His kidnapper's face is perfectly neutral, and his eyes are fixed on the winding road. “You worried about me, darlin’?” Jesse asks.

 

“I'll kill you myself if you call me that again,” Hanzo growls. “I am more patient than my father. We need you alive. If you provoke him, he will kill you.” His eyes, dark and deep, meet Jesse's for a moment. “That is the sum total of my concern, McCree.”

 

Jesse considers pushing him, but decides against it. He leans back in the seat, lowering his hat and closing his eyes. “Don't worry your pretty little head about it. I can be diplomatic. I have charm oozing from my every pore.”

 

Hanzo snorts. Jesse thinks again how pleasant it would be to make this man laugh in different circumstances. “Charm? Hardly.”

 

“I've hardly been attemptin' to charm you, Han. I think you're a prick. But I can be charming.” Jesse keeps his tone light. “Unlike you, who is about as charming as a lump of driftwood.”

 

Hanzo doesn't even reply. They drive on for about ten minutes, smoking, until the stop suddenly. Jesse opens his eyes and tilts his hat back. They have stopped outside a house so large that it could only be accurately described as a castle. It is beautiful, surrounded by open space and quaint, smaller buildings in pastel colours. Pink blossoms cling to the walls.

 

“Very impressive,” Jesse says with a whistle. “How many murdered women and children paid for this place?”

 

“I'd recommend not bringing that up before my father.” Hanzo is distracted, reaching into his pocket for something and fishing around for a second before producing it: a white gold wedding ring. He slides it on without looking at Jesse.

 

This monster has a  _ wife _ ? Or a husband? Jesse's first reaction is a burst of pity. This is followed immediately by confusion about why Hanzo hasn't been wearing his wedding ring.

 

There is, finally, a surge of what might be described as ridiculous jealousy.

 

Hanzo looks at him. His face is stone; his eyes are unreadable. “Come along,” he says coldly.


	5. Family Ties

“Why do you even need the fuckin’ treasure?” Jesse mutters as they walk, side by side, through an ornate corridor. Priceless paintings line the walls. The floor is marble. The whole place smells of fresh flowers. “You’re clearly not in any financial need.”

 

Hanzo doesn’t even turn his head to face him. “Be quiet,” he snaps. “I warned you- insolence won’t be tolerated here.” The hissed words echo around the corridor, which has a high, gilded ceiling.

 

They are flanked by heavily armed guards. Jesse wonders how much of it is to intimidate him, and how much is because the Shimada family heir isn’t exactly trusted. He muses briefly on this thought for a second, glancing at his captor. Hanzo’s hair is pulled neatly back from his expressionless face. A well-fitted black suit hugs his body, barely disguising the solid muscle beneath. The wedding ring glitters on his left hand.

 

They reach a pair of tall double doors, which stand open. The guards stop, allowing them to enter alone.

 

Inside, a man sits behind a desk, glaring at them with the same intently dark eyes that his son has inherited. Like his son, Sojiro Shimada wears a black suit. His hair is almost entirely grey. The hand which wraps around a tumbler of some liquor is covered in heavy rings. He makes no motion to rise as they enter. Hanzo sinks into a deep bow. Jesse merely tips his hat.

 

“Professor Jesse McCree,” Shimada says coolly, his eyes ignoring his son completely. “You are not I as pictured you all these years. My son described the man who dishonoured our family so badly as spritely and dangerous.”

 

Hanzo is standing so close to Jesse that he can feel it when Sojiro’s son tenses at the insult his father has just given him in front of their captor. Jesse feels a brief and wild feeling of sympathy for Hanzo. He forces a cocky smirk. “I retired from the spritely and dangerous business, pal. I promise you that back in the day I was the fastest man in the world with a pistol. Dangerously handsome, too- no doubt that had something to do with it.” He grins at Hanzo, who has paled.

 

“No doubt,” Sojiro repeats impassively. His eyes are on Hanzo now. “Approach me, Professor. I wish to see the ring my son allowed you to steal from us.”

 

Jesse wonders what will happen if he defies him. Maybe Hanzo will get the blame. He steels himself mentally and takes a step forward, then another, then another, then he is standing before the desk. He fights to keep his stance loose and casual.

 

Sojiro stands up and rounds the desk to stand before him. Like his son, he is shorter than Jesse, but there is a confident power in his stance. His eyes are on the ring around Jesse's neck. He reaches out without asking permission and grabs it, lifting it to stare at.

 

“A family heirloom, is it?” Sojiro asks quietly.

 

Jesse doesn't reply.

 

Sojiro looks up at him. “You're going to find the treasure for my son, since he is apparently not able to do it himself.”

 

“Your son is an evil asshole, but he doesn't strike me as incapable.”

 

Sojiro clicks his tongue. “He has failed in this for a long time. But no matter. Soon, it will be over.” He drops the ring and walks back to his chair, sitting down gracefully. “That is all.”

 

“Wait. I want to talk about Angela,” Jesse says.

 

Sojiro looks surprised that Jesse has ignored his decree that the conversation is over. “The girl? You wish to barter for her freedom? It isn't happening, so don't waste my time.”

 

“Shimada, for God's sake-”

 

Sojiro produces his gun and points it at Jesse. His expression is emotionless. Jesse knows that he would pull the trigger without hesitating. “Let me make this clear, Professor. I am not in the habit of asking twice. This conversation is over.”

 

Jesse swallows. He forces himself to turn his back on the gun and walk back to Hanzo. As he approaches, Hanzo and his father talk briefly in Japanese.

 

Hanzo grabs his arm, the first time they have touched since their fight. His strong fingers curl around Jesse's forearm and he steers him from the room, away from Sojiro and his terrifying gaze.

 

They exit the corridor through a different door, entering a narrow and cool stone hallway. Hanzo surprises Jesse by throwing him against the wall suddenly, his hands on his shoulders.

 

“He could have  _ killed _ you, McCree!” he growls, his face inches away.

 

Jesse blinks. He finds himself a little lost in the depths of Hanzo’s eyes, which are rich and warm up close. “He didn't. And, to be fair, if you wanted me to be safe, you could have simply not kidnapped me!”

 

Hanzo growls and releases him. He gestures to Jesse to follow him. This corridor is far less ornate, with lots of small doors. They head to the end before exiting into a beautiful courtyard. Tall green trees ring a paved area, where there is a large golden water feature. Jesse examines it appreciatively as they pass it, heading for a far more modern building, which appears to be a luxury apartment block.

 

Hanzo enters a code on the pad by the entrance, which opens to reveal a clean, bright reception area. They cross to an elevator and step inside. Hanzo presses the button for the penthouse and the doors slide shut.

 

Jesse watches him. He is perfectly still, his face blank, but his left hand twitches, his middle finger rubbing against the wedding ring in an uncomfortable fashion. Jesse is surprised by how much curiosity this man inspires in him.

 

The elevator pings and the doors slide open to reveal a large, beautiful apartment. It is minimally decorated. On a large plush sofa, Angela sits beside Genji Shimada. She looks tired, but unharmed. As they enter, she runs over and throws her arms around Jesse's neck.

 

“Hey, sunshine,” he mumbles, holding her tight.

 

* * *

 

Genji stares as Hanzo watches Jesse McCree embracing the yellow-haired doctor without comment. The elder Shimada brother looks cool and collected, but Genji has learned to read his brother over the years. What their father did to him robbed him of an awful lot of his humanity, but some remains deep down. He isn't entirely comfortable with this path.

 

Genji’s attention is drawn back to Angela. She moves back from McCree to check him for signs of damage, her clever blue eyes examining him closely. Genji has begun to agonise over the status of their relationship; is McCree really capable of being merely friends with someone as beautiful and intelligent as Angela? Genji finds her quite charming. He found himself incapable of tearing his eyes from her as they flew to Hanamura. He has been sitting with her awaiting Hanzo’s return, making awkward small-talk.

 

“ _ Hana is here, _ ” Genji tells Hanzo in their mother tongue.

 

Hanzo freezes. For a moment, he cannot hide the distress on his face. “ _ She cannot be here while McCree is here. I don’t want her to see this. _ ”

 

Genji shrugs. He rather suspects that their father has arranged for Hanzo’s wife and son to be here specifically so that Hanzo is forced to endure her reaction. Hanzo likes to maintain his sham marriage around Genji, and they have never spoken of it, but Genji is more than aware that Hanzo’s  predilections are for men, not women. His bride, a girl less than half his age, is a perfectly pleasant Korean woman who made the mistake of catching their father’s eye on a trip to Hanamura. Thinking about the fate which might have befallen her is unpleasant, but Hanzo surprised Genji- and everyone else- by saving her. He announced that he had fallen for the young woman and married her, effectively protecting her from their father. Eight months later, she had given birth to Leto, an adorable boy who looked enough like Hana to ensure that nobody questioned his father. Hana lives with Leto out of town now, citing the fact that Hanzo is never at home anyway.

 

As if on cue, she pads into the lounge. Her long hair falls in a glossy mane down her back, and she wears a simple black dress. She is truly beautiful, but her wide eyes make her look even younger than she is. Leto is curled up in her arms. He is three now.

 

“Hana,” Hanzo says, his tone unreadable.

 

Genji watches as Jesse McCree looks from Hanzo to the obviously much younger woman wearing a matching wedding ring. His expression is sour. Interesting.

 

Hana crosses to her husband, handing him Leto, who wakes up at the sight of Hanzo and begins to burble pleasantly. Hanzo smiles down at him. For all of his granite exterior, Hanzo really does love the boy. Jesse McCree is still watching them.

 

“Who are our guests, Hanzo?” Hana asks in English.

 

Hanzo clicks his tongue. He looks briefly to Genji for assistance, but Genji decides he isn’t going to help him out of this mess. Hanzo looks away and meets Jesse McCree’s eyes earnestly.

 

“This is my… friend, Professor Jesse McCree, and his associate, Doctor Angela Ziegler.” Hanzo’s words are light, but there is a light pleading tone he doesn't often use. He is imploring McCree with his eyes to corroborate this version of events. He is worried about causing a scene in front of Leto.

 

McCree raises his eyebrows, and glances at Angela, who looks nonplussed. Then he looks at Leto, snuggling into Hanzo, and plasters a wide grin onto his face. “Howdy,” he says brightly, offering Hana his hand. “Call me Jesse, ma’am.”

 

“This is my wife,” Hanzo says, and the words sound distinctly strangled now, “Hana Shimada-Song, and our son, Leto.”

 

“A pleasure to meet you,” Hana says, shaking Jesse’s hand, and then Angela’s.

 

“We will be staying a few nights to prepare our upcoming excursion,” Hanzo tells his wife. “You are more than welcome to join us.” These words aren’t true, but Genji suspects nobody other than himself picks up on it; Hanzo is fond of Hana, true, but he hardly wants her exposed to things like this.

 

“We are travelling to London tomorrow, Hanzo,” Hana says, ruffling her son’s hair. “But we will spend this evening, if that is acceptable.”

 

Hanzo smiles grimly. “Of course, my love.”

 

Genji rolls his eyes.


	6. Domestic Bliss

Jesse finds himself in the very strange position of helping his kidnapper make dinner.

 

Hana insists she wants to cook a meal for the guests. She is a bubbly, beautiful girl, clearly less than half of Hanzo’s age. Jesse tries to understand their relationship, and can’t quite pin it down; they clearly care for one another an awful lot, but there is never anything romantic in their interactions. Hanzo is surprisingly gentle and caring with her. He hugs her at one point and even pinches her cheek fondly. But he never kisses her, or holds her close. Jesse puzzles over this. If he had a beautiful younger wife, he would never take his hands from her.

 

She takes to the kitchen, but it quickly becomes clear that she is out of her depth. Genji ends up helping her chop chicken, and Hanzo peels potatoes. Angela looks faintly bemused as she holds the baby, tickling him gently beneath the chin as he giggles. Jesse watches from the door. The kitchen is small and quickly becomes warm as the oven heats up.

 

“Jesse, can you help Hanzo chop those potatoes, please?” Hana asks, turning her lovely eyes on him.

 

He unfolds himself from the doorframe and heads over to Hanzo, squeezing past Genji on his way. Genji flashes him a rueful smile. This whole situation is utterly bizarre, and Jesse can’t quite get rid of the urge to yell at Hana that her husband has kidnapped two people.

 

He stands by Hanzo and takes the peeled potatoes from the pile Hanzo is currently furiously adding to. They are standing so close that Hanzo’s shoulder is pressed into Jesse’s bicep. He glances down for a second at Hanzo’s face in profile. This domesticated father is so far removed from the man who pointed a gun at him in his apartment. A strand has fallen loose from the bun he has his hair tied in, and it hangs glossily by his face.

 

“You’re good at that, Han,” Jesse says before he can stop himself.

 

Hanzo doesn’t even look up. “Shut up, Jesse- McCree.”

 

“It’s ‘Jesse’ now, is it?” Jesse is grinning. He mutters the words quietly, so nobody else in the room can hear.

 

“I will-”

 

“You can’t kill me in front of your wife and son, can you?”

 

Hanzo glares up at him. Jesse smiles, chopping potatoes.

 

Genji appears behind them, startling Jesse. He has the same dark eyes as his brother, but they are currently glowing with delight. He offers Jesse a bottle of beer with a sly smile. He moves like a cat, his lithe body clad in jeans and a washed-out grey t-shirt. He long ago shed his shoes. Jesse takes the beer with a grateful smile. Genji is beautiful, really, his face the same handsome treasure as his brother’s.

 

He slides across the kitchen, pausing to help his sister-in-law stir the sauce. He stands before Angela and tickles his nephew, ruffling his hair. Angela stares at him. She is clearly feeling a mix of emotions towards the younger Shimada. When Genji turns his grin on her, she smiles reluctantly back.

 

“Your brother is lovely,” Jesse murmurs to Hanzo.

 

Hanzo stops moving his hands to look up at Jesse. A half-peeled potato rolls away from his fingers. He looks the exact opposite of his brother, still dressed in a formal shirt and trousers. His shiny shoes are still on. “You are… you like…?”

 

Jesse feels a familiar unease at being asked this question. He made his peace with his sexuality long ago, but is has often been thrown in his face and ridiculed. Hanzo Shimada has not exactly been kind to him, and will surely take any confession Jesse gives him as a weapon. That said, he refuses to shy away from the truth. “I’m bisexual. I like men and women.”

 

Hanzo’s face has not yet revealed any emotion to Jesse apart from extreme anger, but something powerful washes over it as he stares up at Jesse. His eyes glow sadly, and he swallows.

 

“Excuse me,” he chokes out. He walks from the room.

 

Jesse stares after him. Hana has apparently not noticed, and is busy at the stove. Angela is now talking with Genji softly, and their eyes are fixed firmly on each other. Jesse feels cold. He doesn’t feel that Hanzo has stormed off in disgust. Something else is happening, and Jesse knows that Hanzo is suffering.

 

Part of him wants to just leave him to his suffering. He deserves it, after all. Jesse takes a swig of beer.

 

He can’t leave this.

 

Trying not to dwell on his own motivations, he leaves the kitchen, ignored by everyone. A door stands ajar at the end of the corridor, and he heads towards it. He abandoned his boots some time ago, so his bare feet recoil slightly from the cool floor. Like Genji, Jesse is wearing jeans. His shirt is black and soft, with three buttons at the collar. He fidgets with one as he approaches the door.

 

The room appears to be Hanzo’s office. A large desk sits in the centre, and Hanzo himself is sat in the enormous chair behind it. He is holding a photograph and looking at it sadly. Jesse’s eyes are drawn to the wedding photo on the wall behind Hanzo. In it, Hanzo looks ridiculously handsome in a black kimono. He is smiling, with one arm around Hana.

 

“McCree, now is not the time,” Hanzo sighs, placing the photograph he is clutching back into his desk drawer.

 

Jesse watches him reach for a cigarette. “Is something on your mind?” he asks.

 

Hanzo raises his eyebrows, lighting the cigarette. “We are not friends, McCree. Don’t try to act like you care about my feelings in an effort to change my mind about the treasure.”

 

“I’m not thinking about the treasure,” Jesse says, and this is honest. For one moment, all he thinks about are the full, soft lips Hanzo wraps around the cigarette.

 

“Well, you had better start. I have waited thirteen years for you.”

 

Jesse swallows. Surely, he has waited thirteen years as well? He has thought of Hanzo every day, pictured him every night as he slept. He doesn’t  _ know _ this man, spent less than three minutes in his presence over a decade ago. But there is something in Hanzo that reaches out to Jesse, and McCree feels that he has known him forever.

 

“Is it jealousy?” His mouth is running away with itself before he can stop it. “You know, that I said Genji was lovely? Because, you know, you have the same face and-”

 

Hanzo has paled. “Get out,” he breathes. “Get out before I hurt you.”

 

And Jesse knows. He knows why Hanzo paled when Jesse suggested to his father that it may have been Jesse’s good looks that prevented him from losing his dignity. He knows what the photo Hanzo was so hungrily staring at is of: a lost love. And Jesse knows that Hanzo’s lost love his not a beautiful woman, like his wife. It's a man.

 

He wants to comfort Hanzo, because really, what could be worse than not being able to love who you want? But what comfort can he offer? If he attempts to approach Hanzo right now, he is likely to get hit- or worse. Hanzo is a deadly, cruel man, and this is certainly most true right now.

 

“I’m goin’.” Jesse turns to leave, then pauses and looks back. “If you want to talk, you know where I am- probably right in front of you, because you kidnapped me and you’re scared I’ll run away.”

 

* * *

 

Jesse doesn’t see Hanzo again until dinner. Outside the apartment windows, the sky has turned an inky black. Hana lights candles and they sit on the floor, cross-legged around a small table. The baby sleeps.

 

Hanzo emerges from his office with his shoes off and his sleeves rolled up, revealing colourful tattoos. Dragons. Jesse stares at them as he crosses to the table and sits down beside his wife, on the other side of the table from Jesse. He would never have imagined Hanzo having tattoos, but they are pleasing. He finds himself trying to remember if Hanzo had been wearing sleeves when they met thirteen years ago, and wonders if the tattoos are a new addition.

 

Genji is sitting to Jesse’s left, with Angela on the other side. The younger Shimada is infinitely more palatable than his brother. He has an easy smile and his eyes twinkle, especially when they are turned on Angela.

 

“You are good with those chopsticks, McCree,” he observes.

 

Jesse smiles, deftly flicking some chicken into his own mouth with the chopsticks. “I always really liked Japanese food.”

 

“That’s an understatement,” Angela laughs. “Remember last summer when we ate ramen every day for a month.”

 

“How could I forget? You remind me every time I use chopsticks,” Jesse chuckles.

 

“Are you two a couple?” Hana asks, her keen eyes darting back and forth between them. Hanzo looks up from the chicken he is pushing around his plate and resumes his hungry staring at Jesse.

 

“Christ, no,” Angela says. She catches Jesse’s eye.

 

He smiles back. “Just good friends.”

 

Hanzo goes back to glaring sullenly at his dinner.

 

“I was thinking,” Hana says, “Angela and I should take Genji’s bed, and you three guys can fight it out between you for Hanzo’s bed.”

 

Genji smiles. “I will sleep on the floor in Hanzo’s bedroom. I find it quite comfortable. Jesse, you can sleep with Hanzo.”

 

Jesse feels the blood rush to his cheeks. Hanzo looks up and their eyes meet. Hanzo is also scarlet. Jesse clears his throat. “Splendid,” he manages.


	7. Shower

Hanzo makes Jesse shower first.

 

He sits on his bed, listening to the water rushing in the en suite, fidgeting with the edge of his silk blanket. He tries hard not to picture Jesse’s body beneath the jets of steaming water.

 

Genji hasn't yet come to the bedroom, which is a blessing. Hanzo thinks he would expire from shame if anyone witnessed him behaving in this fashion. What is wrong with him? He has waiting for a significant portion of his lifetime for his opportunity to get revenge on Jesse McCree, the man whose behaviour cost him so much. And yet…

 

If Hanzo is honest with himself, he desires McCree.

 

McCree has a smile which lights up his whole face, creasing the corners of his warm eyes. He has a slow laugh, and he smells of cigarettes and cheap aftershave. He is tall, and broad, and beneath the mask he wears- that of a silly, light-hearted fool- he is clever and sensitive.

 

Hanzo can’t do this. He can’t let himself fall for another man. Especially not Jesse McCree. Not after what he caused.

 

The water stops. Hanzo drops the blanket, producing his phone from his pocket and looking at that instead, pretending that he has been doing this the whole time.

 

Jesse is singing. Hanzo can hear him through the door. He has a surprisingly pleasing voice, loud and clear. Hanzo doesn’t know the song he is singing. The words wash over him. ‘ _ This… is the last time I’ll abandon you…’ _

 

The door flies open suddenly, a cloud of fragranced steam following the damp McCree into the bedroom. He wears one of Hanzo’s black towels wrapped around his waist, but the rest of him is naked. His hair hangs, wet and tangled, on his shoulders, which are broad and muscular. The warm brown skin there looks silky and delicious. Hanzo is aware, vaguely, that he isn’t looking at his phone anymore, and is instead devouring Jesse with his eyes, but he can’t help himself. What used to be muscle has thickened a little around McCree’s stomach, and is covered in fuzzy hair. The ring hangs around his neck.

 

He reaches up with a second towel to dry his hair, turning slightly as he does to reveal his shoulder blade to Hanzo. Hanzo feels all the moisture in his mouth disappear as he sees the scar: his scar, the scar he marked Jesse McCree with all those years ago. It is very round and neat. He is overcome with an overwhelming desire to cross to McCree and dig his thumb into it, to remind him of it.

 

It is gratifying to see that McCree is left marked by their encounter. Perhaps he doesn’t agonise over the scar each morning, as Hanzo does, but it is certainly there.

 

“You done starin’?” McCree asks cockily, raising an eyebrow as he glances over his shoulder.

 

“I was merely looking at your scar. A reminder of why I dislike you so intently.”

 

McCree raises his other eyebrow and glances down at his own shoulder blade. “Oh, that thing,” he says casually.

 

His apparent lack of interest in the scar infuriates Hanzo, who becomes filled with a violent need to provoke Jesse. “I could have killed you. You are lucky I decided not to.”

 

McCree turns to him, laughing suddenly. “I seem to recall actually shooting you, Shimada. You know, with a gun, not with a toy.”

 

“You missed. It merely skimmed me,” Hanzo retorts.

  
Jesse smiles slowly, slyly. Then he is on the bed, this incredibly large man moving far faster than he should be able to. With surprising strength, his hands find the collar of Hanzo’s shirt. Still smiling that pleased grin, he tears it open.

 

Hanzo swallows. McCree is there, right in front of him, kneeling before him on silk sheets. Their faces are almost touching. He should kill his captive.

 

McCree is completely ignoring his captor’s face, pushing aside Hanzo’s shirt to admire his own handiwork, the gnarled scar on Hanzo’s shoulder. “Shit.” McCree mumbles. His fingers brush the scar, and they burn Hanzo. “What a mess.”

 

Hanzo can see the pulse in Jesse’s throat. He can see every stubbly hair on the American’s face. He doesn’t dare move, worried what he will do if he does. A droplet of water, a tiny diamond, trails from Jesse’s hair down his shoulder. It takes all of Hanzo’s self-control to stop himself from leaning forward to taste it.

 

Finally, McCree stands up. Hanzo exhales shakily, then realises that he has been holding his breath.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo goes to shower, his face thunderous. Jesse pulls on some pyjamas. Hanzo selected them when he packed Jesse’s things. They are grey jersey, soft and comfortable. They smell of home, of his washing powder and apartment. For a moment, Jesse feels a panicky pang of homesickness and uncertainty.

 

He climbs into the bed, wincing at the coolness of the silken sheets. Of  _ course _ Hanzo has silk sheets. He rolls his eyes. Through the bathroom door, he can hear the shower.

 

The bedroom door opens and Genji enters, smiling softly. “Hello, Jesse,” he says.

 

“Hey.” Jesse sighs, settling back against the pillows.

 

He watches Genji unfold a soft mat. He places a pillow and blanket on top and sits down on it, cross-legged. “Are you feeling okay?” Genji asks.

 

“Fuck, no. I got kidnapped today, and I got my best friend kidnapped too.” Bitterness he has been repressing slips into Jesse’s words. “I don’t want to go find that cursed treasure. It’s dangerous. That’s why I wrote that fuckin’ book, Genji.”

 

“I know,” Genji says quietly, surprising him. His eyes burn earnestly into Jesse’s. “And I’ll help Angela. I promise.”

 

There is truth in his words. Jesse simply nods, exhausted.

 

“It’s my family,” Genji offers, unprompted. “We’re poisonous. Evil.”

 

“You aren’t. Hanzo might be.”

 

“He isn’t.” Genji tugs distractedly at his green hair. “He is under a lot of pressure, Jesse. He can’t see that our father has ruined his life, not you.”

 

“Ruined his life?”

 

“The dishonour of having you take the ring from him. Our father… he took someone very precious from Hanzo, as a punishment. And then… when Hanzo dared question it…” Genji trails off, his eyes distant. “Hanzo’s legs, Jesse.”

 

“His… his legs?” Jesse has a faintly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Whatever it was that happened to Hanzo’s legs, and whoever it was that Hanzo lost (and Jesse is starting to get a pretty good idea of the nature of the relationship), surely it is partly Jesse’s fault?

 

“You’ll see.” Genji sighs. “I’m sorry, Jesse.”

 

The shower stops suddenly. Jesse looks at the bathroom door, a confusing feeling of dread washing over him. Several long moments pass before the door swings open.

 

Hanzo is wrapped in a towel, as Jesse had been. His torso is truly magnificent, lean and muscled, with beautifully tattooed arms. Below the towel, Jesse can see his bare legs. Except they aren’t legs at all.

 

They are beautiful, intricate and sleek silver prosthetics.

 

Jesse swallows. He can’t name the emotions he is feeling. He feels paralysed, and he realises that his fingers are knotted tightly around the edge of the blanket.

 

Shit.


	8. Runaways

They lie in the dark. Across from him, Jesse can hear Hanzo breathing.

 

If he reached his hand across, he could take Hanzo’s. He could touch his enemy’s face. He could tangle his fingers in the still-damp fall of Hanzo’s hair.

 

This is ridiculous. He has to stop this. This man kidnapped him- and his best friend- and is clearly a fucking monster. The Shimada family are notorious for their cruelty, brutality and general unpleasantness, and Hanzo is heir to the fucking throne.

 

But Genji is clearly not a bad guy. And some stupid seed has been planted inside Jesse that maybe- just maybe- his brooding elder brother isn’t a bad guy, either.

 

“You don’t have to do this, Hanzo,” he whispers into the darkness.

 

There is no reply.

 

* * *

 

Jesse wakes up with the familiar pain in his shoulder blade. He sits up, blinking groggily in the crisp, clear light of morning. One hand goes to his shoulder automatically as the other reaches up to fruitlessly attempt to detangle his hair.

 

Hanzo and Genji are both gone, leaving Jesse alone. He rubs at his eyes, wondering what fresh hell the day holds. Coughing, he pushes his way out from beneath the silken blanket and heads to the bathroom. 

 

Hanzo’s bathroom is impressive. Expensive toiletries are arranged neatly on glass shelves. There is a faint mist on the glass door of the shower, revealing that at least one of the Shimada brothers has already showered this morning as he slumbered. Jesse tries very hard not to think about that.

 

He steps beneath the hot jet and lathers his body with the pleasantly aromatic body wash. His mind wanders to Hanzo’s prosthetic legs. What on earth had his father done to him? What could possibly possess someone to cause such horrific damage to their own son? Jesse finds himself feeling sympathy for his captor, yet again. He fingers the ring at his neck thoughtfully. How much damage had Jesse caused in Hanzo’s life by stealing this from him?

 

He steps out and wraps himself in a towel. Back in Hanzo’s bedroom, he goes to his own case and rummages through it. In the exhaustion of the night before, he hadn’t thought to check what Hanzo packed for him, but he finds his lips quirking up at the sight of his old serape. He lifts it out, touching the soft, fraying material with a nostalgic smile.

 

Hanzo Shimada really is a weirdly sentimental bastard, apparently.

 

Jesse dresses in some jeans and a plain black t-shirt, pulling the serape over the top and shoving his hat on. He finds himself desperate for a cigarette. With an odd sense of guilt, he opens the top drawer of the bedside table, half-expecting to hear Hanzo's infuriated voice behind him. Instead, the only noise is his own startled gasp as he sees Peacemaker lying there, tucked neatly between a box of cigarettes and a silver lighter. Hanzo obviously retrieved it from its hiding place before Jesse came home and was assaulted by the Shimada heir in his own apartment. 

 

But why was it so carelessly placed in the drawer Jesse has been sleeping beside?

 

There's no way Hanzo Shimada is that careless. Which means…

 

“Genji, you beautiful bastard,” Jesse breathes, peeking into the barrel to see that the weapon is fully loaded.

 

He tucks the gun into the back of his trousers, the folds of his serape concealing it. Taking and lighting a cigarette, he leaves the bedroom, wondering how Angela is doing. He pads down to the kitchen.

 

Hanzo is stood talking to Hana. Her long hair is braided and she leans against the counter casually, smiling warmly as she holds the baby. Hanzo is wearing a full suit and shoes, and talking to his wife in gentle tones. Hana raises a hand to Jesse as he enters, her smile widening, and Hanzo turns to him and nods. Their eyes lock. Despite the practiced calm of his stance, it is clear to Jesse that something is wrong. Hanzo’s eyes are burning.

 

“Mornin’, Shimadas,” Jesse greets, taking a long draw of the cigarette. “Where’s Genji and Angela?”

 

“They went out for breakfast together,” Hanzo says lightly. There is the merest edge to his words, an edge which Hana apparently doesn’t notice. But Jesse does.

 

Have they run away together? Has Genji helped Angela to escape? Jesse feels a rush of elation followed by a dreadful concern that she may be in danger. He needs to get Hanzo alone to talk about this, away from his innocent wife. “Han, can I see you for a second about some maps?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light.

 

“Of course,” Hanzo says, eyes flashing. “Excuse us, Hana.” He presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, and Jesse feels something hot and uncomfortable flare inside him as he watches.

 

They walk along to Hanzo’s office in silence; Hanzo opens the door for him and Jesse steps in, relieved when Hanzo steps in and slams it behind them, leaning against the door with his arms folded.

 

“Where are they?” Jesse asks.

 

There is a flash of irritation in Hanzo’s face. “I… I don’t know,” he admits tersely, unfolding his arms for a moment to rub his cheek.

 

“We have to find them!” Jesse shouts.

 

Hanzo is on him, one strong hand curled around each shoulder. This close, Jesse can smell his cologne. It is delicious. “Hush, please,” Hanzo whispers, eyes frantic. “I don’t want Hana and my son to hear.”

 

“I have been very fucking careful not to get you into trouble with your damned wife,” Jesse snarls, and he is aware of how bitter he sounds, “despite the fact that you kidnapped me and my best friend to drag us on a fucking stupid treasure hunt. But if Angela is in trouble we need to prioritise that!”

 

Hanzo looks down for a moment. He licks his bottom lip, his bright tongue darting out before he looks up at Jesse with an expression that can only be described as earnest. “I promise, McCree- Jesse. I promise. You have my word. But please- let me get Hana out of here first.”

 

“What’s the fucking deal with you two, anyway?” Jesse asks bluntly. He knows he should stop; this is hardly relevant now, but his increasing urge to kiss Hanzo Shimada is taking away some of his higher order brain functions.

 

Hanzo steps back, frowning. He is no longer touching Jesse. He hesitates, eyes darting wildly for a moment before settling back on Jesse. “We are not friends,” he growls finally. “Do not ask me questions like that.”

 

“Whatever we are is more than that,” Jesse snarls in response, and he surprises both of them by taking a step closer to Shimada, then another.

 

Hanzo, easily the most lethal creature Jesse has ever faced, stands his ground as his captive closes the distance between them. “I loathe you,” he breathes up into McCree’s face, “I hate you. You ruined my life and dishonoured my family.” His eyes burn like torches as he stares up.

 

Jesse is smiling, a small, cocky grin. “Then why do you look at me like you want to devour me, Han?”

 

Hanzo pushes him, hard. “Don’t think I wouldn’t kill you, Professor McCree,” he hisses. There is a faint, pink flush on his face.

 

“I do think that,” Jesse snaps back, stepping back towards him. “I do think that, Hanzo, and do you want to know why?”

 

Hanzo reaches into his jacket and pulls out his gun at the exact moment that Jesse produces Peacekeeper. They face each other, breathing heavily, eyeing each other down the barrels of weapons.

 

“Just like old times,” Jesse says softly, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Where did you get that?” Hanzo snarls. “Hand it over, now.”

 

“You’re hardly going to want to discharge a weapon while Mrs Shimada is here, are you?” Jesse asks lightly. “So how about you hand  _ yours _ over and we deal with this nice and calmly?”

 

They are still glaring at each other, guns clutched in tight fingers, when the door opens and Hana walks in with a gasp.


	9. Start from the Beginning

“Put them down,” Hana says firmly, her voice never shaking as she looks from Jesse to Hanzo. Her face is unreadable, but she is calm and coldly furious. Even as Hanzo feels the vague dread at the idea of what is to come, he has never felt more proud of his young wife.

 

He glances at Jesse, who is staring openly at him, waiting for him to lead them out of this pickle.

 

“Hana, my love, I can explain-”

 

“The guns. Lower them. Now.” There is an unfamiliar firmness in his wife's voice as she confidently interrupts him, and he hears Jesse chuckle as the American lowers his gun.

 

Hanzo hesitates, then tucks the pistol back into his jacket. He looks at Hana, ignoring the curious looks Jesse is shooting at them.

 

“We need to talk,” Hana says finally.

 

“Yes,” Hanzo replies, his voice hollow.

 

“I'll just leave you guys to it-” Jesse begins, taking a step towards the door, but Hana blocks his way. It's almost comical; Jesse McCree, who is above average height and just generally large everywhere, is blocked by the tiny body and burning gaze of Hana Shimada-Song.

 

“You too, Jesse,” Hana says, and Hanzo realises her tone is slightly softer when she addresses his captor. Traitor.

 

“As you wish,” Jesse says gently, taking a respectful step back so that he isn't too close to Hana. Hanzo wonders if this awareness of the potential threat of his body is conscious or not, and decides that he likes it either way.

 

“What is going on?” Hana asks.

 

Jesse looks at Hanzo. Hanzo makes eye contact with him and feels the familiar clenching in his stomach as he looks into those melted chocolate depths. He frowns at himself, annoyed at his own weakness, then takes a deep breath and wonders how to explain everything to his wife. Perhaps he should just lie. 

 

“And don't lie,” Hana says, raising her eyebrows. “I can see you thinking about it.”

 

Hanzo has never realised how astute his young wife is. Truthfully, in many ways she is a stranger to him. But he is fond of her, and they are bound by marriage. She deserves the truth. Hanzo opens his mouth to tell her, but Jesse speaks first. 

 

“Your husband kidnapped me and Angela.”

 

Hanzo feels his stomach sink as Hana turns an icy glare to him. “My husband kidnapped two people,” she repeats. 

 

“It is slightly more complicated than that,” Hanzo replies, his discomfort making the words come out sharply.

 

“Is it?” Jesse asks, and although his words are a response to what Hanzo has said, his reply is aimed at Hana. There is an emotion in his voice Hanzo hasn't heard there before, something like sadness. He's faking it, Hanzo realises, watching in mild disgust as Jesse takes off his hat and turns those soft eyes on Hanzo's wife. “You're a lovely girl, Hana. You're not like him. You can do something to help.”

 

“Oh, please,” Hanzo snaps, glaring at Jesse. “You stole something from me over a decade ago-”

 

“A family heirloom!” Jesse retaliates, turning away from Hana for a moment to fix Hanzo with a wide-eyed, innocent stare which looks ridiculous on his sinful fucking face. “The property of Bartleby McCree, my ancestor-”

 

“You’re Bartleby McCree’s descendant?” Hana asks, surprised.

 

“You’ve heard of Bartleby McCree?” Hanzo says, shaming himself with the tone of shock which creeps into his words.

 

Hana notices it, too, because she frowns slightly at him. “I enjoy history,” she replies, tartly.

 

Hanzo feels himself flush. Jesse, on the other hand, is clearly loving this. He turns his full charm offensive onto Hana again, all soulful eyes and a crooked, dimpled smile. “I would be delighted to spend some time talkin’ with you about him, Hana,” he says softly, deliberately emphasising his accent.

 

Hanzo wonders how Jesse’s young, female students cope with their ridiculously attractive archeology professor. His wife, probably not much older than them to be honest, is visibly melting in Jesse’s earnest gaze. Hanzo supposes he can’t blame her, really. Jesse has flirted with him mildly and that has been distracting; if he ever turned the full force of his charm onto Hanzo, he isn’t sure he could resist.

 

Not that he’s ever going to tell McCree that.

 

Hana blushes. “Jesse, I-”

 

“Stop flirting with my wife,” Hanzo snaps, trying to ignore the jealousy which is flaring within him. “Why don’t we all go and sit down to discuss this properly?”

 

Hana nods and turns to lead them to the lounge. Once her back is turned, Jesse gives Hanzo a broad wink and a grin before following her, luckily not noticing the heat which rises in Hanzo’s face.

 

Hanzo follows them, feeling that this situation is spiralling wildly out of control but not knowing how to fix it. Hana sits down opposite the sofa, Leto cradled on her lap. He is asleep. Jesse slumps on the sofa, allowing Hanzo to sit next to him. They are so close now their shoulders are touching.

 

“Start from the beginning,” Hana says.

 

Hanzo looks at Jesse. For a moment, he is lost thirteen years ago, thinking about the slim, sprightly man with the crinkled eyes who robbed him in such a charming way. The cocky smile that handsome stranger gave him was burned onto his brain for so long that, just for a few seconds, Hanzo can’t quite comprehend that the owner of that smile is sitting beside him, frowning thoughtfully at Hanzo’s wife.

 

“I was livin’ in Mexico at the time,” Jesse says suddenly, startling Hanzo. “Gabe- the guy that raised me- had eyes on the same prize as Hanzo here. It didn’t sit right with me. I did some diggin’ into the history of my family and we took off to try to find this ring, the key to Bartleby McCree’s treasure.” He is fingering the ring at his throat. “We get to Borneo and find that the Shimada family are also lookin’ for the damn thing. I knew something was off about the whole thing and I knew I couldn’t let it fall into the hands of a crime family- no offense.”

 

Gabe- the man who raised McCree. Hanzo’s brow crinkles. There’s so much he doesn’t know about McCree. It’s hard to imagine that Jesse has ever had any life outside the few days he’s been tangled up in Hanzo’s. Why wasn’t he raised by his parents? Questions burn Hanzo’s throat, but he swallows them down.

 

“This was thirteen years ago,” Jesse continues, not looking at Hanzo at all. “I got to the place where the ring was just too late- Hanzo was already there. So, I robbed him and escaped- after he shot me with an arrow, that is.”

 

Hana turns horrified eyes onto Hanzo, who flushes again. “He shot me with a gun!” he hears himself blurt out.

 

Hana looks exasperated. “So one of you robbed the other one thirteen years ago, then you both apparently shot each other. What’s happening now?”

 

“I’m going to find Bartleby McCree’s treasure for our family. Jesse is assisting me,” Hanzo says.

 

“Against my will,” Jesse chimes in cheerfully. “I fully believe it’s a dangerous and stupid idea.”

 

“Hanzo, you can’t,” Hana says, eyes wide as she looks at him. She is so young. Hanzo has always tried to protect her from the grim truths about the Shimada family- partly by ensuring she is rarely around them- and he hates to see the horror on her face.

 

“I must,” he replies simply. “For your sake, too- and Leto’s.”

 

“Would your father hurt your wife and son?” Jesse asks, finally turning to look at him. He sounds disgusted.

 

Hanzo doesn’t reply, merely looks at Hana. She frowns slightly. She isn’t stupid, not at all, and knows how Hanzo’s father can be; that was how she ended up married to Hanzo in the first place. “I don’t know what to say,” she says finally.

 

“We need to focus on getting you out of here, then finding Genji and Angela,” Hanzo replies crisply. He can’t deal with getting drawn into something emotionally charged. He needs to focus on the tasks that need completing.

 

“Finding them?” Hana repeats.

 

“Genji has a bit of a soft spot for Angela,” Jesse chimes in. “I suppose they’ve run away together. Let them go.”

 

Hanzo sighs. “Jesse, if my father finds out they’ve gone… he won’t rest until he has Genji back, in whatever state he deems fitting. Angela won’t be seen again.”

 

Jesse exhales. “Fuck.”

 

Hana has paled. “I’ll get my things,” she says softly, standing up and heading to one of the bedrooms.

 

Hanzo is alone with Jesse, who is glaring at him. Suddenly overcome with a desire to escape that burning gaze, he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, pacing as he tries to work out where Genji might have gone.

 

“We have to find them,” Jesse says.

 

“I’m aware of that,” Hanzo retorts.

 

“Fuck,” Jesse says again, running a hand through his messy hair. “Fuck this and fuck you too, Hanzo.”


	10. Disgrace

_ Hanamura, September 2005 _

 

Hanzo awakes in a painful, foggy haze. The room is dark. Nobody is there to check on him. He supposes he's lucky he awoke at all.

 

He covers the dressing on the bullet wound with his fingers, hissing at the white-hot ripple of pain this causes. He lies alone, in the darkness, pressing lightly down on the wound, stinging and thinking about the haunting smile of the man who shot him.

 

Hanzo promises himself that he won't ever forget the man's face. Then again, how could he ever forget? The stranger was beautiful. 

 

Torturing himself with these thoughts is not a good idea, not at all, but he supposes on some level he deserves to suffer. He is a failure. He has let the family- and himself down. His looming inability to father an heir is not something he needs to focus on. But he can't forget the soft twinkle of the man's eyes, the electricity of their fingers brushing. 

 

The door opening, letting in a sliver of golden light, is enough to startle him out of this destructive daydream. He sits up slightly, seeing the lanky, knobbly shape of his little brother in the doorway.

 

“Hanzo?” Genji whispers.

 

“I’m awake, Genji,” Hanzo says, and his voice comes out hoarse.

 

Genji opens the door wider, casting light across the medical room. In the middle of his awkward teenage years, he has the height of a man, but he has not yet filled out. His dark hair sticks up in wild tufts around his narrow face. His expression is closed as he crosses the room, his bare feet barely making a sound. He has always moved like a shadow, and this is only becoming more pronounced as he gets older.

 

“Does it hurt?” he asks, in English. Hanzo doesn’t know when they both started speaking English to each other, but it has almost become a secret code to them; although most of the people associated with the family speak at least some English, they choose not to.

 

“Not too badly,” Hanzo lies smoothly, reaching out to touch Genji’s arm fondly. Genji is his favourite person, the only member of their dreadful family he trusts. He wouldn’t put it past their father to hurt Genji as punishment for Hanzo’s failure. “How are you?”

 

There are dark shadows below Genji’s eyes, eyes which burn with pain beyond his years. But as he looks down at Hanzo, he forces a smile. “I am just glad you are awake, brother. It has been five days.”

 

Five days. The family will have caught the handsome stranger. They may have killed him already; Hanzo will never have an opportunity to see those crinkled eyes again. He swallows down hard, subconsciously fingering the wound. “Have they caught the American who stole the ring?”

 

Genji swallows. “They haven’t caught anyone, Hanzo. Father is…”

 

“Furious,” Hanzo finishes for him. He lies back, closing his eyes.

 

He meets with his father the next day. He stands proudly in his suit, forcing his painful, exhausted body not to collapse. His father is quietly furious, eyes flashing.

 

“I am relieved to see you were not killed,” Sojiro says in their mother tongue, the words devoid of emotion. “I trust you have a plan to find the American who robbed and disgraced you?”

 

Hanzo has no such plan, no idea of how to find the handsome man. He has described him at length to several members of the family, and a detailed drawing is pinned behind the desk in his father’s office. Hanzo looks at it, thinking privately that the drawing fails to capture the sparkle of the man’s eyes. “I will attend to the problem, Father.”

 

“I know that you will. It is not acceptable for the Shimada heir to bring such shame upon our family.” Sojiro squeezes his shoulders, a fatherly gesture which crushes the wound on Hanzo’s shoulder.

 

Hanzo doesn’t let the pain cross his face. He learned long ago not to let his father see any weakness. “Of course.”

 

But he finds no sign of the handsome American. He pulls footage from security cameras in hotels in all the cities closest to the place he was robbed in Borneo. He speaks to as many local people as he can find phone numbers for. He sends out the family’s best trackers, but they never find him.

 

At night, he lies awake in his bedroom, mouth dry as he thinks about the American. In his head, he has started to refer to the stranger as Joel, a suitably American name. He thinks about how much he’d like to take Joel by the hair and kiss him, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to draw blood. How much he’d like to shut the cocky young man up by reducing him to a whimpering, gasping pool of liquid. Hanzo touches himself and presses down on the bandage as he finishes in his own hands, hissing.

 

He starts to hate himself more with each passing day.


	11. Ember

_ Hanamura, 4th March 2018 _

Jesse watches Hanzo pace the room. This is the most human Hanzo has looked to him, his face creased with worry. Jesse thinks of Angela, of something happening to her because he got her swept up in this mess, and he covers his face with his hands.

 

She is his best friend. The woman who sat through chemotherapy with him, holding his hand and murmuring soothing words to him. The woman who held him as he sobbed, who told him he looked lovely even when his hair started falling out.

 

He groans.

 

Hanzo’s phone rings. He produces it from his pocket and answers in Japanese, leaving the room. Jesse feels powerless, and he hates it. He fiddles with Peacekeeper, surprised at how comfortably the gun fits in his grip after all this time.

 

Jesse had really wanted to leave this world behind.

 

Hana appears in the doorway. He quickly places the gun down, not wanting to frighten Hanzo’s friendly wife. She gives him a sad smile and crosses over to him.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, sitting beside him. “You don’t deserve this.”

 

“Maybe I do,” Jesse replies, looking at her. “But Angie doesn’t.” 

 

Hana reaches out, tentatively, and rests her small palm against the roughness of Jesse’s cheek. He sighs at the contact. Her beautiful eyes burn sadly into his face. “You are a good man, Jesse. Don’t hate Hanzo. He is a good man, too, deep down.”

 

She is beautiful, and touching him kindly, so he covers her hand with his own automatically. “Tell me about your marriage,” he says.

 

Hana laughs. She moves away from him suddenly, standing up and watching Jesse over her shoulder. “Shall I assume your questioning has less to do with an interest in me, and more to do with an interest in my husband?”

 

Jesse feels his cheeks burn. “Assumptions are dangerous, Hana. Especially of that nature. I like men and women. You can relax, though. I must be double your age.”

 

“So you have taken an interest in Hanzo,” she grins back.

 

Jesse thinks about Hanzo Shimada; he thinks about his burning dark eyes, the aromatic scent that clings to him, his prosthetic legs. He thinks about how Hanzo has no qualms about grabbing him, touching him roughly. He thinks about the way that Hanzo stares at him like he wants to devour the American. None of these thoughts come out of his mouth, however. What comes tumbling out hoarsely is, “Hanzo’s an asshole.”

 

She shakes her head, coming back to sit with him again, apparently absolutely at ease. “He isn’t. I came here to visit four years ago. I was a month pregnant, a teenager who wasn’t ready for a family and wasn’t in a relationship. Unfortunately, Hanzo’s father took a liking to me.”

 

Jesse frowns, sympathy welling up in him. He places his hand on the girl’s arm. “What a creep.”

 

“He had singled me out for… well. Anyway, Hanzo met me in the rooms Sojiro had forced me into and he told his father we were in love and wished to marry. Sojiro was desperate for an heir so he released me into Hanzo’s care.”

 

“But you weren’t in love?” Jesse is frowning, his grip firm on Hana’s arm. He can’t explain to himself why this information is so important.

 

“No, we’ve never even kissed,” Hana shrugs. “We do our own thing most of the time, and he makes sure Leto is well provided for. In return, he doesn’t have to worry about having an heir.”

 

“Why would he worry?” Jesse asks, even though he knows the answer.

 

She smiles. “You know why. I’ve seen how you two look at each other. I hope you can help him, Jesse.”

 

She leans forward and throws her arms around him suddenly, pressing her face into his chest. He holds her, suddenly rather emotional. His eyes feel damp and he thinks about Angela, as he leans forward to press a kiss to Hana’s head.

 

Hanzo walks back in the room, and he clears his throat. When Jesse meets his eyes, he sees what can only be described as naked, furious jealousy. It can’t be over Hana… so it must be over Jesse. Jesse feels something twist deliciously in his stomach, but his momentary happiness vanishes as Hanzo scowls at him.

 

Hana draws back and smiles at her husband, but even this doesn’t soften his expression.

 

“That was my father on the phone,” he says, in glacial tones. “McCree, he has demanded our presence tonight at a formal dinner, which will stop us from going directly after Genji and Angela. He wanted them to attend, but I managed to convince him that they have gone out to get something we need for our quest.”

 

Jesse cringes under Hanzo’s piercing gaze. He forces a bright smile. “I’d love to be your date to a formal family dinner, Han,” he says. He can’t stop himself flirting with Hanzo. He enjoys the pink flush which creeps its way up his handsome, serious face.

 

Hanzo ignores him. He turns to his wife. “I shall take you to the airport now, Hana.”

 

“Do you want me to just stay here? Ain’t you worried I’m goin’ to run off?” Jesse demands.

 

“No,” Hanzo says, briskly. “You’d be shot. So I’d recommend you don’t try it.”

 

Jesse laughs despite himself. A few moments later, he is standing by the doorway to the apartment, ruffling Leto’s tufts of hair and giving Hana a hug. Then they are gone, and the apartment is empty.

 

Surely there’s only one thing he can do now, right?

 

He sets off towards Hanzo’s office and is almost surprised when the door simply swings open. He glances for a moment at the wedding photo on the wall, thinking again how lovely Hanzo looks. Then he turns his attention towards the desk.

 

A manilla folder sits neatly in the middle. He lifts it and opens it, surprised to see his own face staring back at him. It’s the publicity shot from the book, the one which was supposed to make him look dashing. He wonders if Hanzo thinks its a good photo. It’s at the top of a page of information about him. His name (although not the one he had all those years ago), employment status, criminal record: nothing particularly juicy or exciting. He closes the folder and replaces it.

 

There’s only one thing he’s looking for, really, and he finds it in the top drawer. The photograph he caught Hanzo poring over. It’s of two men, and it takes Jesse a moment to realise that the man with the wide grin and clean-shaven face is Hanzo. His arm is thrown around a handsome man with deep brown eyes and dimples, a man who is looking at Hanzo like he hung the sun in the sky.

 

Jesse can’t blame the man for looking at Hanzo like that.

 

There is a message scrawled on the back in a loopy, messy hand which Jesse instinctively knows cannot belong to the Shimada heir. It simply reads:  _ Han and Nate, June 2006. _

 

June 2006. The year after Hanzo was robbed by Jesse. Had Hanzo been seeing this lovely man when Jesse met him in that cave? Jesse thinks back to the way their fingers brushed, the tension between them, and decides that he can’t have been.

 

Jesse isn’t sure how to feel. Nate isn’t around now- by the sounds of it, based on what Genji said, he’s either dead or long gone. It’s not like Jesse has spent the past thirteen years celibate, either.

 

But he has, fairly consistently, thought about the Shimada heir.

 

He swallows, putting the photograph back and leaving the office. He feels uncomfortable, and it’s his own fault. He is rapidly forgetting that Hanzo Shimada has kidnapped him, and his best friend. It's not even mere lust. Jesse could forgive himself that. 

 

He's still sitting in the living room feeling conflicted when Hanzo returns. 

 

“Why are you making that face?” Hanzo asks him. 

 

“Maybe it's the result of being kidnapped by a fuckin’ monster like you,” Jesse offers, with a glib smile. 

 

Hanzo doesn't look as if he believes him. “Is it because my wife has left?”

 

It's so ridiculous that Jesse bursts out laughing.

 

Hanzo stands over him, looking as if he could happily murder Jesse. Damn it all, that makes him look even more attractive. Jesse McCree knows he is absolutely fucked.

 

“No,” he manages eventually. “Hana is lovely, but I prefer a bit more maturity, old man.”

 

Hanzo goes positively crimson at that. “I’m sure I told you I was going to kill you if you won’t stop flirting with me.”

 

“You could do, I suppose,” Jesse sighs. “I rather think you’re growing fond of me, though. You’d miss me.” He smiles rakishly up at Hanzo.

 

* * *

 

They spend the afternoon in Hanzo’s office, trying to locate Genji. His phone is off, and he hasn’t used his credit cards. Hanzo pores over maps of the local area, trying to work out where Genji might go to hide. Theoretically, he could be anywhere by now; Genji has always been able to sneak like a shadow.

 

Maybe it would be better if Genji escaped. Hanzo sighs, thinking about his younger brother, how unhappy he feels about their lives.

 

“Surely we’d have heard if they’d been found?” Jesse drawls, sitting opposite Hanzo with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He is crossing phone numbers off a list of hotels they have called.

 

“I imagine so,” Hanzo replies, feeling a strange urge to reach over and smooth McCree’s wild hair. “I’d certainly be in a rather dangerous position.”

 

Jesse sighs, throwing down his paper and leaning back. “I don’t think this is gettin’ us anywhere, Han,” he says. “Maybe they’ll be fine. They’ll sneak out of Hanamura and go into hidin’.”

 

“I’d like that,” Hanzo says honestly, and he sees Jesse’s brow crease in surprise. “I really would, Jesse. But they’d never be safe.”

 

“At least not while your dreadful family continues,” Jesse says bleakly, raising his eyebrow.

 

There isn’t anything Hanzo can say in response to that, so he doesn’t. He turns his attention away from the handsome man sat sprawled across from him and looks at the darkening sky. The day has gotten away from them, and they have accomplished little.

 

“We should get ready for dinner,” he says softly, turning back to Jesse. The American’s eyes are burning into him, and he feels himself blush under the intensity of the gaze. He doesn’t like it when Jesse looks at him like this; he doesn’t understand it. The pair seem to have formed a tentative alliance for now, but Hanzo is still waiting for Jesse to attack him and make an ill-planned bid for freedom.

 

Jesse smiles brightly. “Do you want to shower first, second or together?”


	12. Ties that Bind

_ Hanamura, May 2006 _

 

A light, summer drizzle splatters the glass of the window in Hanzo Shimada’s office. The light is almost apricot, illuminating his paper and casting a warm glow on his bare arms. He rolled his shirt sleeves up about an hour ago, when he really got into this particular drawing.

 

It's of the man he has come to think of as Joel, the man they have yet to capture. Even months later, the wound he gave Hanzo wakes him up gasping every morning, and Hanzo wonders if the arrow wound makes Joel sit up in a wild panic every day. He wonders if this pain will last forever; he knows it won't but dreads the day it stops, which he knows is ridiculous. 

 

Hanzo has long known that he likes men and not women. Here in Hanamura, under his father's iron rule, that is bad enough. To be obsessing over Joel, the man who dishonoured their family so, is suicidal. 

 

The picture is in soft charcoal, gentle, sloping lines capturing the beautiful imperfections of the American's face. His wrinkled eyes are creased with the crooked, dangerous smile he wears in Hanzo's image of him.

 

“ _ What are you doing _ ?” The Japanese words drift over from the office door; Hanzo was so engrossed in his art that he didn't hear his father enter. 

 

He blushes. It's too late now, too late to hide this picture with the others. “ _Drawing our_ _American_ , _Father_ ,” he replies _. “To help with the search_.”

 

Sojiro crosses the room and stands close to Hanzo, peering over his shoulder wordlessly at the drawing. He doesn't believe Hanzo's lie; it hangs heavy in the air between them.

 

* * *

 

_ Hanamura, 4th March 2018 _

 

Despite Jesse’s flirting, Hanzo showers first, closing the door firmly behind him. Jesse perches on the edge of Hanzo’s bed, hands fidgeting with the blanket as he listens to the hot water streaming down over Hanzo’s naked body. He tries very,  _ very _ hard not to think about that.

 

What is happening to him? Jesse knows he finds Hanzo Shimada objectively attractive- he always did. There’s no human alive who could argue that Hanzo’s strong, chiseled face and deep eyes aren’t attractive. But Jesse can’t stop thinking about it- can’t focus on anything, in fact, not even the dreadful predicament he finds himself in.

 

He needs to snap out of this. Almost absent-mindedly, he opens the top drawer of the bedside table closest to the side of the bed Hanzo slept on. He’s hoping for something hilarious or sexual, but instead he just sees a stack of papers and photographs. This is oddly sentimental, and it makes something stir in Jesse’s chest. He reaches for them, putting on his glasses as he does so.

 

At the top is a photograph of Genji. He’s maybe about twelve, all limbs and missing teeth, hanging upside down from a climbing frame. He’s grinning at the photographer. There is something incredibly endearing about the idea of Hanzo having this in his drawer. Jesse finds himself smiling softly as he lifts the photograph, putting it to the bottom of the pile to reveal the drawing beneath.

 

His breath catches in his throat.

 

His own face, lovingly rendered in charcoal, looks back at him.

 

It’s him as he was thirteen years ago, young and vibrant and cheeky, with a sort of cocky swagger he wishes he possessed. What is remarkable about this is the way Hanzo- for it must have been Hanzo- has drawn him to be so  _ beautiful _ . This is the way a lover might draw someone; longingly and gently.

 

The paper has the brittle, yellowing quality of something created long ago. Hanzo must have drawn this not long after they first met.

 

What does it mean? All of the moisture has gone out of Jesse’s mouth, and his heart is pounding in his chest. He looks down at this younger version of himself, tries to see himself the way a younger Hanzo clearly did.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

He didn’t hear the water stop, so engrossed as he was in the picture. He looks up, blood rushing to his face at being caught. Hanzo, damn him, is standing in the doorway, a towel slung around his waist. His beautiful torso is bare, covered in droplets of water, and his hair hangs loose and wet. His prosthetic legs draw Jesse’s attention briefly before he forces himself to raise his eyes to Hanzo’s solemn face.

 

“I was hopin’ to find somethin’ incriminating in your bedside table drawer,” Jesse hears himself saying, in a drawl which isn’t quite as cocky as usual. His throat feels dry. “Y’know, like a butt plug or some lube. I just found a pile of papers.”

 

Hanzo’s facial expression barely changes, but Jesse can tell that he has suddenly figured out what Jesse is clutching and staring at so greedily. “Oh,” he says, quietly.

 

Jesse reaches up and removes his hat. He peers at Hanzo over the top of his glasses. “So… you drew me?”

 

“I was trying to find you.” The words convince neither of them.

 

“This is a good drawing,” Jesse says gently. “You must have thought I was pretty handsome to draw me like this.”

 

It takes Hanzo a long moment to reply. He doesn't break eye contact with Jesse, although his cheeks are pink. He closes his eyes, briefly; the luxurious fans of his lashes sweeps down to rest upon his perfect cheeks before he opens them again. He speaks quietly, the words steady. “You were handsome, and remain so.”

 

If anyone else said those words, Jesse would close the distance between them and kiss them. Even now, he imagines pressing Hanzo into the wall, drinking in those deep eyes greedily and pressing his lips into his kidnapper’s beard. But this is Hanzo, and he is impossible to read. Jesse sits perfectly still, wondering what to do.

 

Finally, Hanzo clears his throat. “You should shower,” he says.

 

Jesse nods, replacing the papers in Hanzo’s drawer. His hands are shaking. He stands up, pushing his glasses up on top of his hair out of the way. As he crosses Hanzo, the damp man steps to one side, deliberately creating a larger gap between them. Jesse breathes in the scent of Hanzo’s shampoo as he passes and sighs to himself.

 

He closes the door behind him and leans against it for a moment with his eyes closed.

 

Fuck.

 

* * *

 

When he steps out of the bathroom, bundled up in a big black towel, he finds Hanzo looking far more composed. He has pulled his greying hair into a sleek knot atop his head, and is wearing a silk kimono of navy blue and silver. The wide hakama trousers he wears are short enough to give a glimpse of his legs. He has not bothered with shoes. The only slight flaw on his perfect veneer is the cut on his lip from Jesse’s punch.

 

“You look every inch the heir to the Shimada empire,” Jesse says, well aware of the fact that his hair is tangled and soggy around his shoulders. He coughs.

 

Hanzo looks at him. “I didn’t pack you anything appropriate for an event of this nature,” he says crisply. “So I’ve had something suitable provided.”

 

He gestures to a suit which is laid out on the bed. It is navy, a three-piece, with a waistcoat, a crisp white shirt and a red tie. Jesse rarely wears a suit- perhaps the last time he did was for his job interview. He thinks of the university with a sad twinge; he had applied to take a few months out after his book release to rest and recover, and Angela had joined him, so nobody there will be looking for them.

 

“You want to dress me up in a suit? Can’t I just go in my fuckin’ jeans? I mean, no offense, Han, but I couldn’t give a shit if your father thinks I’m a dapper dresser,” Jesse drawls. He’s trying very hard not to look at Hanzo, he realises.

 

Hanzo frowns. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says mildly. “If you don’t show the proper respect, you know he will kill you. Please remember to be quiet and deferential, McCree.”

 

“Quiet and deferential,” Jesse repeats, raising an eyebrow. He can’t help but look at Hanzo’s firm face. “That your kink, Hanzo?”

 

Hanzo goes pink. Interesting. “Do you not tire of attempting to provoke me, Jesse?” he asks sharply. “Get dressed.”

 

Jesse shrugs. Apparently he isn’t getting any privacy. He suspects Hanzo wants to ensure that he doesn’t try to sneak Peacekeeper into the dinner party; well, Jesse can make him pay for that. He drops the towel and stands naked before the suddenly scarlet man who dragged him out here to Hanamura. He knows he’s not a young man, and wonders if Hanzo would prefer to see him as he was thirteen years ago, all corded muscle and lean, sharp edges. He’s broader now, softer around the middle, with more hair and more scars, but he certainly has never had a complaint. He focuses on that now as he swaggers over to the bed, grinning at Hanzo, who is practically beetroot.

 

Hanzo has selected a pair of soft, black underwear, and Jesse slides into it slowly. It is not his, and he assumes it is new. It fits snugly, hugging tightly as bends over deliberately to lift the navy trousers.

 

“Stop it,” Hanzo says finally, his voice hoarse.

 

Jesse pauses, still bent over the bed, and looks at Hanzo with an innocent expression. “I’m just doing as you asked, Mr Shimada, Sir,” he replies, in his best deferential voice.

 

For a moment, Jesse honestly thinks that Hanzo is going to tackle him- possibly to kiss him, possibly to kill him, but that predatory gleam is back in Hanzo’s eyes. But then Hanzo looks away and crosses to the window, folding his hands tightly behind his back.

 

Jesse laughs and pulls the trousers on. They are also tight, stretched across his thick thighs. He gives an experimental wriggle to make sure he won’t burst out of them. He slips the shirt on and fastens it, tucking it in. Feeling uncomfortable, he reaches for the tie, and lifts his collar to drape it around. It has been a long time since he has fastened one, and he fumbles with it.

 

“May I?” Hanzo asks quietly. He has stepped closer to Jesse again, his face soft.

 

Jesse thinks about making a cutting comment, but he is lost for a moment in the deep brown depths of Hanzo’s eyes, which are staring longingly at Jesse’s fingers on the tie. He nods, moving his hands away, and Hanzo steps forward.

 

He is slightly shorter than Jesse, something which surprises Jesse each time he remembers it. He leans close to tie the knot, the soft, fragrant hair at his forehead pressing lightly against Jesse’s beard. Hanzo is wearing some delicious aftershave. Jesse balls his hands up into fists to resist the urge to lift Hanzo’s chin roughly and kiss him.

 

“Done,” Hanzo says crisply, stepping back.

 

Jesse examines the tie, which is now in an elegant knot. “Thanks,” he says, and his voice comes out rough. He slips on the waistcoat and the jacket before fastening the black shoes Hanzo has provided. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to tame it, then looks back at Hanzo.

 

“As I said,” Hanzo says, with an unusually gentle smile, “handsome.”


	13. McCree Manor

_ London, September 2005 _

 

“You’re sure this is the place?” Gabe asks, staring up at the crumbling building with a frown. He is sitting in the passenger seat of the battered old Mini owned by the girl they met on the internet, the university student with an interest in Bartleby McCree.

 

She turns the ignition off. “This is definitely the place,” she says, in a broad Cockney accent.

 

“It isn’t what I expected,” Jesse murmurs. He is in the back of the car, his knees squashed up against Lena’s seat.

 

“It’s dangerous,” she says seriously, turning to look at him. She can’t yet be twenty, and has bright, intelligent eyes. “You guys sure you’re up to this?”

 

“Definitely,” Gabe says confidently. He shakes her hand. “Thanks for the help, Miss Oxton.”   
  


“Just remember I want to see whatever you find for my research,” she says.

 

Gabe and Jesse climb out the car, Jesse wincing as the movement stretches his injured shoulder. He is still bandaged from his encounter with Hanzo Shimada. They wave as Lena’s little green Mini rattles away down the lane, then turn to face the house.

 

McCree Manor is a crumbled, desolate estate, the once-white stone turned grey. It looks like there was a fire at some point; part of the roof is missing, and the gaping hole is charred black. Insidious ivy clings to the side of the building. There was once a tall wall around the property, but it too has worn away over time, leaving random stubs of stone.

 

“Where do we need to head?” Gabe asks.

 

Jesse grew up with Gabe, was raised by him. Gabe is a career criminal, a thief and a grifter. They have been chasing the McCree treasure since they met, and Gabe has become comfortable with deferring to Jesse’s superior knowledge of this.

 

Jesse pulls a ragged piece of paper from his pocket. He stole it from the museum in Acapulco the day they met, and has memorised the words on it, but he likes to check it just in case. “ _ The hidden entrance to my legacy is in my wife’s bedroom, inaccessible to those without my ring _ ,” Jesse reads. He fingers the ring at his throat, thinking for a second of Hanzo Shimada.

 

Gabe nods, and they set off. They are a formidable-looking pair. Gabe wears all black, a long padded jacket hiding his weapons. Jesse is wearing jeans and a denim jacket, his pistol tucked inside.

 

They quickly discover why Lena believes the house to be so dangerous- the floor is missing in places, open to the cellar below. The staircase has burned away, and loose beams block their path.

 

They work together, climbing over the fallen wood. Jesse leaps up and grabs onto one of the remaining stairs, lifting himself with a wince as his shoulder twinges. He bends down and offers his hand to Gabe, who takes it and allows himself to be pulled up.

 

The floor upstairs is even more treacherous, weak in places. Carefully, wordlessly, they help each other across, with the practiced comfort of people who know each other inside and out.

 

The second largest bedroom is surprisingly well intact, even down the dusty plum blankets on the bed. They set about finding a lock, something the ring will fit into. Gabe runs his gloved hands along the bookshelves, which are covered in faded texts. Jesse opens the wardrobe door and finds it full of old dresses.

 

He feels his way around the back of them and gasps when he finds a small, round groove in the wood at the back. Unable to see through the dresses, he fumbles with the ring and slots it into the groove. He feels a section of the back of the wardrobe jump forward, released by some mechanism, and he feels inside to find a few papers.

 

He pulls the ring and the papers out and looks down at them. Gabe is still at the bookcases, unaware that his ward has found exactly what they need.

 

Jesse feels his mouth go dry as he reads the curled handwriting on the yellow sheet on the top.

 

_ We found El Dorado in Constantinople. Truly an amazing amount of gold. But something horrible happened to my men. They are all dead now, victims of the terrible curse on the treasure. I fear I am to be next. I cannot allow something so monstrous to be released into the world. El Dorado remains in its final resting place, and I am recording this as a warning to anyone who is foolish enough to come looking for my treasure: do not do it. I am going to hide my ring, the key to this, and pray that this ends with my death. _

 

Beneath the paper is a faded map. Jesse blinks down at it.

 

“What you got there, Jes?” Gabe asks, finally noticing the papers.

 

“He found… he found El Dorado, Gabe,” Jesse says, and the words come out hoarse. He cannot allow this paper and this map to leave this room. They cannot go after this treasure. Whatever it is, it isn’t worth risking lives for. “But his men died. He says there was a terrible curse.”

 

“Of course he does,” Gabe replies shortly, stepping closer to Jesse. “They all say things like that. It’s to stop people like us going after it.”

 

“I really think we need to drop this one, Gabe.”

 

Something changes in the air. The two men are facing each other. Gabe is shorter than Jesse, but solid, and his posture is tense. The two men have bickered over the years, certainly, but they haven’t ever come to blows. The hair on the back of Jesse’s neck stands up.

 

“Jes, be serious,” Gabe says, in a light tone. “We need this.”

 

“I’m not an ‘at any cost’ kind of guy, Gabe,” Jesse replies, keeping his own voice calm. “We can’t do this.”

 

“El fucking Dorado,” Gabe says, raising his eyebrows. “Seriously, Jesse, you’re going to start having some sort of moral scruples over this? It’s an unimaginable treasure.”

 

“We aren’t doing it, Gabe.”

 

Gabe raised him. Found him when he was young, took him in and taught him everything that he knows. The pair have saved each other countless times. They have drank hot chocolate together at Christmas. Gabe taught Jesse how to ride a bike.

 

And yet, Gabe’s fingers twitch for his gun.

 

Unfortunately for him, Jesse McCree is almost preternaturally fast on the draw. He always has been. It’s a gift.

 

That’s how they end up with Gabe’s hand curled around the barrel of his gun as Jesse presses the muzzle of Peacekeeper into his forehead.

 

“How could you?” Jesse asks, and the words come out around a hot lump in his throat. “Gabe, what the fuck?”

 

“It’s just business, Jes,” Gabe says. His dark eyes burn into Jesse. If he is feeling remorse, it doesn’t show on his face.

 

Words bubble up inside of Jesse but he can’t say them; emotion burns his throat and eyes. His hand- the one holding the gun to the head of the only father he has ever known- shakes. He knows, on some level, that what he is feeling is bitter betrayal. Even now, his brain is starting to question everything that they ever shared, wondering if he was ever anything more than a useful tool for Gabe. “You went to draw your gun on me,” he chokes.

 

“I’m going after El Dorado, Jesse,” Gabe replies. “You aren’t going to shoot me. You may as well just hand over the papers and the ring. We can go together.”

 

He doesn’t mean this, and they both know it.

 

“Fuck you,” Jesse whispers.

 

“You won’t shoot me,” Gabe repeats, and the hand around his gun uncurls and moves towards the papers clutched in Jesse’s hand.

 

Gabe is half right. Jesse won’t shoot him in the head. He loves this man, the man who (up until some two minutes ago) was his closest friend. However, Jesse will absolutely shoot him.

 

“I don’t ever want to see you again,” he says softly, his voice thick.

 

Then he shoots Gabe in the knee.

 

He leaves his mentor bleeding on the bedroom floor, swearing profusely in Spanish, and takes the papers with him.


End file.
